Adrenaline and Other Accidents
by thisisforyou
Summary: Q is not cut out for fieldwork, and he's using that as an excuse for kissing Secret Agent 007 - the first time, at least. All subsequent times were entirely out of his control. Bond/Q, M for considerable amounts of smut. Oneshot.


Q is not cut out for field work.

That's his excuse, anyway. Because that's how it happens, the first time: some computer system can't be hacked remotely and Q finds himself kitted out, wrapped in Kevlar and stuck in the middle of a terrorist base, tapping on their _ancient_ PC system while SA 007 watches the door.

One minute he's buried up to his neck in password encryption code, and the next there's the cool metal of a Beretta F-20 pressed to his temple and a damp, sweaty hand wrapped around his neck. He tries to stop himself from shaking and looking terrified, but he's not sure he succeeds as the man holding him manoeuvres them around so that Q's back is to the computer and they can see 007, panting and with a gash through the arm of his Savile Row tailoring. When they first turn around, the personalised Walther Q had given him is held out firmly in the man's direction, collateral bodies on either side of him, but when he sees Q compromised, he lowers and eventually drops it.

While the man engages in some tacky banter with 007, Q reaches back one hand to the keyboard behind him, feels his way to the bumps in the F and J keys and quietly resumes deleting and copying the relevant files.

Without warning, 007 dislodges an already-bloody knife from somewhere up his sleeve and hurls it at the man holding Q; he misses, but the man flinches nonetheless and loosens his grip on Q's neck just enough for him to get an elbow in his face and a knee in his groin and he goes down for long enough for 007 to recover his gun and put a bullet through his temple. In the ensuing kerfuffle around 007 doing a rough cleanup job, Q casually lifts the data key out of the computer.

He starts to giggle when they get outside, but 007 cuts him off with a gesture to the three armed men sprinting in their direction.

"Where can we go that's safe?" 007 asks.

Q blinks at him. He's not sure whether the question is directed at him or simply a spoken thought, but he answers it anyway and that seems to work. "My flat," he says without thinking, because of course it's protected and whoever's chasing them should lose them in the rush-hour foot traffic anyway. 007 nods shortly, and then they're running, his whole world reduced to adrenaline and the effort of putting one foot in front of the other.

He's not used to it, though, so as soon as the door shuts behind him he collapses against the wall in his hallway, dropping his keys and giggling helplessly. Even 007 is panting and leaning against the wall beside him, complimenting his quick actions with the man holding him and his subtlety with the code. He's not used to the adrenaline and the triumph, and he's using that as his excuse for grabbing the bigger man by the lapels and smashing their lips together.

Of course, as soon as he makes the move his blood runs momentarily cold with panic, but 007 is kissing him back, and there are large firm hands on his hips pulling him closer, and there isn't room left in his mind to panic so he lets go.

Years later they break apart; Q is rock-hard and trembling and 007 is panting gently in his ear, and it takes a moment but eventually his brain kicks right back in with the panicking.

He steps back hurriedly, straightening his glasses from where 007's questing fingers knocked them askew, and clears his throat. "We should get your arm fixed," he says awkwardly. The blond stares at him, then turns and follows him with nary a word of protest.

It's not like it was a spur of the moment urge, though. He's had a quiet crush on SA 007 for quite some time and watched from his office as he seduced woman after woman, each occasional man making his heart leap in hope. Not that there was ever much of that: the agent even flirts with the _interns _at Q-branch more than he does with Q.

Now, of course, with the rhythm of 007's heart thrumming in his ears, he's not quite sure what to do, so he coughs again and leads the agent into the sitting-room, fumbling in the kitchen for the first-aid kit.

007 sits on the sofa, his blue eyes inscrutable as Q gingerly puts three stitches in his arm and tapes gauze and antiseptic over the gash. "You live with someone," he observes finally, a touch of something Q doesn't dare define in his voice. "Those medical journals aren't yours."

Q glances back at them. "My flatmate's in her final year," he says, assuring himself that he's imagining the tiny relieved slump of 007's shoulders.

"You still have a flatmate?" the blond asks. "Surely you could afford better than this on your own."

He shrugs. "I don't like being on my own." He's not sure why, but he feels compelled to add, "She's not here tonight, though. She's staying with someone." He tapes off the last of the gauze and runs gentle fingers over the patch, unwilling to move away. 007 is still looking at him, and it makes him extremely aware of what his hands and knees are doing and how close they are to the other man.

The agent leans minutely closer. "So she won't mind if I shag you over every surface in the flat?" he says, without warning or preamble.

Amazingly – and Q thanks a million gods he doesn't believe in for it later – he keeps his composure. "I think she'd be delighted," he replies calmly.

Still007 hesitates, bringing up his uninjured hand to hover around the curls on Q's forehead. "And you – _you_ wouldn't mind?" he asks slowly.

Q lets out a frustrated breath through his nose. "_Christ_, 007, do you need a formal invitation?"

The blond's grin is joyous as he leans forward and presses their mouths together in a kiss that reeks of anticipation and promises. Q isn't sure what he's done to make 007 want him like this, the strength of it bleeding from his very gums, but there's no way he's about to complain. He kisses back and rolls them so that he's straddling the agent's lap on his sofa, furiously tugging at his short blond hair and rolling his hips down to grind their groins together. 007 is already delightfully, rampantly hard, and the feel of it sets Q's blood alight.

He hasn't in his wildest fantasies expected the agent to be so _responsive_. He'd always liked to keep an element of the plausible in his imaginings, and so the disparity between the affection he can't seem to hold back for 007and the attention he expected to receive in return was always fairly obvious. Now, Q gasps into the older man's mouth and grinds his hips down desperately in an attempt to _keep up_.

For a long while it's enough, the quick, hard press of their twin erections, and then suddenly it isn't; Q reaches between them to 007's belt and dives thin fingers under the grey fabric to retrieve the agent's cock, gasping at the lack of pants he finds therein. 007 chuckles against his lips. "Apparently wearing briefs would ruin the lines of my trousers," he excuses, his voice a rich rumble in Q's ears that makes him squirm and stroke the organ in his hands.

007 tries to return the favour, but Q's hook-and-eye trouser fastenings prove too much for hands made shaky with lust; the knowledge that he has made _SA 007, licenced to kill_ lose control like this sends tendrils of heat right through his body until his toes curl and he almost comes right then and there. Impatient, he bats the blond's hands away and opens his trousers himself, fishing himself out of already-damp pants and pressing their leaking cocks together, his breath hitching as 007's hand joins his own.

Neither of them make much noise, but Q prefers it that way: he's always found the noises people make during sex to be slightly contrived, but the tiny desperate bent of 007's panting breaths in his ear is genuine, and raw, and there's no way this was ever going to last with one of each of their hands forming a tunnel for them both to thrust into, the hot throbbing of the other man's cock like a metronome to Q's heartbeat. The agent comes with a gasp and Q follows, the tiniest suggestion of a shout escaping his mouth only to be drowned in the crisp fabric of 007's jacket.

He tries not to laugh when it's over, but the whole thing is so ridiculous – he's sitting on his own sofa with his flatmate's latest girly romance novel skimming under his feet and Secret Agent 007's come splattered all over his cardigan – that he can't help it. The blond chuckles with him, stroking his hair lightly and pressing a kiss to the tip of his ear where it's accessible with Q's face pressed into his neck. "You're gorgeous," he breathes, so quietly Q almost wonders if he imagines it.

"Your shirt is ruined," he murmurs into the jacket, followed quickly by a grin that he sits up to deliver. "You'll have to take it off."

007 smiles lazily. "What a shame," he agrees. Q rolls off his lap and lies down on the sofa, lifting his feet so that his knees hinge over the agent's lap and he can direct an appreciative stare at the older man as he painstakingly removes his jacket and shirt. He's seen 007 without a shirt before – he seems to prefer that state even in the midst of his assignments – but this is _for him_, so it's different. He catches his breath and tries to bite his lip coquettishly when the agent looks down at him.

It must work on some level, because 007 leans forward, knocking Q's feet off the edge of the sofa in order to lower his body over his and press their lips together. This time it's gentle and warm, lazy with satisfaction and without urgency. This time they're kissing because they want to, not because they _need_ to – 007 _wants_ to kiss him, and the weight of his body covering Q's own is making his pulse pick up again.

Gently, the agent eases himself down until he can rest his weight on his elbows and still employ his fingers to part the buttons of Q's cardigan, and then the shirt underneath, until his chest is bared and 007 looks up at him with a smile. Q shifts underneath him until the blond is nestled cosily between his legs, the lazy stirrings of arousal compounded by the friction of the agent's skin. "007," he whispers, rocking his hips up again so that the other man knows without the doubts he seemed to have earlier that Q still wants him.

007 smiles lazily into Q's shoulder. "Q," he replies, biting gently at his Adam's apple and licking a path down his throat and across his chest to take a nipple into his mouth. Q sighs and arches against him pleasantly. "So bloody sexy," he says, each word punctuated by a hard, biting kiss lower down Q's stomach. "Your voice in my ear, _Christ_."

Q smiles, because no matter how this ends that's ammunition he can use against the agent in the field; it's unbelievably powerful, knowing that the right word in the middle of even the most dangerous assignment could throw him off. Q smiles at the sudden image of dropping a swear-word in the blond's ear while he was in the middle of seducing someone for Queen and country and watching him pause and shudder.

Just to try out this newfound power, Q runs his hands down 007's shoulders and lets out a shaky breath. "Fuck," he whispers. The agent bites his abdomen, the twitch that runs through the rest of his body betraying the involuntary nature of the gesture. Q chuckles. "You _do_ like my voice, don't you?" he teases.

The blond laughs, the breath blowing against the tense muscles of Q's belly. "What are you going to do about it?" he asks softly, and then swallows Q's erection until he can feel the back of the agent's throat against his head. He shouts at the sensation, because 007 asked, and it feels different to let out the noises in the way that only good sex with someone new ever feels, where both partners forget their usual predilections because the way everything is _different_ is intoxicating. 007 moans around him and he gives up, lets his mouth fall open and his hand slide into the older man's hair. He submits to the blowjob until he catches sight of 007 reaching into his still-open trousers to take hold of his own cock, and then he lets out the shout of the agent's title that he usually screams in his head and comes forcefully down his throat.

007 chuckles, slowly stroking himself and shifting to kneel on the sofa. "You're not usually a noisy lover, are you?" he asks, licking his lips before nudging Q's face to one side with his nose like a fond dog.

Q feels his face flush with embarrassment and wonders what he must have sounded like for 007 to make that enquiry. "I… no," he admits, letting go the hold he had had on the agent's hips.

"You don't have to be, for me," 007 tells him, sucking at the pulse-point underneath his jaw. "The noises you make are unbelievable, but I don't want you to be loud just because you think it's what I want."

He manages to get a hand between their bodies and push 007 away from him in order to claim his lips for his own. "Fuck me," he entreats, letting his hand fall to the blond's erection. "Then you'll see how loud I am."

007 groans, his head smacking painfully into the bony part of Q's shoulder. "Lube," he murmurs, turning the word into a bite that leaves a lasting impression.

"In my bedroom," Q replies. "I'll go get it. Every surface in the flat, you said."

The agent is waiting at the doorway back to the sitting-room when Q comes back with the lube; as soon as he's through the door 007 jumps on him, slamming him up against the wall beside the doorframe and bruising his lips in a brutal kiss. "We'll start with this one," he says roughly.

Q lets out his breath in a huff and presses the lube bottle into the older man's hands. "Fine by me," he replies.

He's almost asleep when his morning alarm goes off, curled lazily in his damp sheets with his hand stroking idly between the curves of 007's pectorals. The agent picks up the clock and tosses it lightly to him instead of fiddling with it himself, so Q turns it off and puts it aside, sighing as he curls himself tighter around his newfound lover.

"Q," 007 breaks in after a moment's procrastination with a very deliberately casual tone. Q hums acknowledgment without moving to look up because his entire body aches from the past few hours' exertion. He hasn't worked that hard in possibly years, and he's _never_ come that hard or that often before. "What's your first name?"

He _does_ look up then, his back protesting the movement. "My… my name?"

It seems so natural to have people call him _Q_ that he even addresses _himself_ as such in his head sometimes. He thinks he'd _rather_ 007 call him Q than his first name, but he recognises the sentimental nature of the request and it shocks him slightly. He'd never thought the agent might want this – he'd never thought he might want _him_, but once it became clear that he did Q had squared his shoulders and prepared for heartbreak in the morning.

007 meets his eyes and smiles warmly. "Yeah. You're _Q_ in my mind, but it seems weird that after everything we've done in the past few hours I'm still calling you by your codename."

Q is rendered completely speechless. "I… um… I didn't really…"

"Oh," 007 says quietly, his body stiffening. "That's okay. Never mind, just forget it."

"No," Q argues, sitting up quickly to correct what 007 must have taken as hesitancy. "I didn't mean –"

"_Forget it_," the agent says forcefully. Q blinks, but there's a slightly dangerous glint to 007's eyes that he doesn't want to argue with. He'll leave the argument for another day, he decides; although it's possible that he was right about 007's intentions for this to be a one-time thing, and this was his practised, easy way of making the one-off seem like Q's fault rather than his own.

They lie together for a moment longer, but 007's embrace has turned cold and forced, and after a pause he sits up. "I have to go," he says offhandedly. "I have to get new clothes before I can go into the office."

"Right," Q says glumly, collapsing back onto the bed. The prospect of a day's work seems far-off and unattainable with his body feeling like this. He hauls himself upright and dons a pair of pyjama pants nonetheless, intending to follow 007's almost frenzied rush back through the house to collect his discarded clothing and at least attempt to show him out of the front door; however, when he reaches the door to his bedroom he hears a bright voice he recognises and barely refrains from banging his head against the wall in despair.

In the living room, 007 is laughing idly and fastening the zipper of his trousers, holding out his hand to shake that of his beaming flatmate. "Sorry about that," he says. "I didn't realise you'd be coming back so early."

"Don't worry," Elle says brightly. "Neither did I. I'm sorry, I should have rung ahead, but I thought it was too early."

As 007 makes an airy negating comment, Elle's eyes fall on Q in the doorway. He grimaces. She beams. "Morning, sunshine," she says cheerily. 007 looks around and smiles at him, but there's something empty about it. Elle gives him a pointed look. "Boy, did _you_ get lucky last night," she says.

He raises his eyebrows behind 007's back in a _don't I know it_ expression. She laughs. "Well," 007 says, flapping his hands and bending to pick up his jacket and shirt from the sofa, "I'd better go. Can't show up to MI6 in these clothes."

Elle smiles diplomatically. "It was lovely to meet you," she says, patting him on his bare arm. And then, with a last lingering look at Q – for a moment he thinks the blond is about to lean in for a kiss – he nods and strides towards the door. Elle sighs. "Well. At least _someone_ had a good night last night. I just found out I have to go to a series of lectures in _Dublin_ next week. Looks like I'll be gone until _Sunday._"

Q thinks he sees 007 pause in the doorway at the sentence, but perhaps he imagines it; the door closes innocently behind him and Elle slumps into a seat at the table. "So," she says in a mock-casual tone. "Isn't there a clause in your contract forbidding you to sleep with the double-ohs?"

He sighs. "There probably should be," he admits, grabbing onto the back of the chair opposite her. He wants to sit down, but he doesn't want to give her the satisfaction of the inevitable wince as his bottom hits the chair. "Hang on – did he _tell_ you he was a 00?"

"He didn't have to," she replies lightly, her eyes drifting to the front door. "The way he carries himself, _license to kill_ sort of… _oozes_ from every pore in his body – _God_, you have no idea how jealous I am of you right now."

Q grins at her. "Nowhere near as jealous as you should be," he tells her. And it's true: nothing she could be imagining could be anything like as good as what actually happened between them. She groans, collapsing forward so that her forehead hits the table.

"You know," she says conversationally, "you would think that sharing a sexuality with the majority would mean that I had more and better sex than you."

He laughs. He's always admired the way Elle is comfortable enough with him to say things like this: it took him years to let go to the same degree. Now, though, he doesn't blush or stammer. "But no," he replies simply instead. Then he adds, "It just means that you have more lasting relationships."

Her teasingly reproachful eyes turn sharp, so Q lets himself show the regret he's been feeling ever since 007 left his bed. "Sexy blond secret agent isn't coming back?" she asks carefully. Q shakes his head. Elle's eyes narrow even further. "Does he know you want him to?" she says quietly.

Apparently his silence – and perhaps his refusal to meet her eyes – say enough, because she sighs, then abruptly changes the subject. "You need a shower," she tells him briskly, standing up. "_Can't show up to MI6 _smelling like you've just walked out of a brothel." He smiles softly again and lets her shoo him towards the bathroom. "I'll make tea," she says comfortingly.

"I love you, Elle," he tells her at the door.

She sticks out her tongue at him. "You'd better."

007 isn't commissioned for the next two days, and so Q doesn't see him: apparently the days when he used to hang around in Q's office to pass the time when he wasn't active are over. He wonders briefly if he ought to regret changing their relationship, now that he's discovering all the good things he's losing, but he can't bring himself to.

So when M calls him from upstairs to let him know 007 will be coming down for outfitting, he takes a deep breath and resigns himself to the worst. Except there's always a part of him that's hoping the blond will walk in and kiss him and everything will be brilliant, and so the impossibly long wait between the call and 007's arrival almost kills him.

"Oh, 007," Q manages airily when he finally enters, as though he hasn't been fidgeting on the edge of his seat since M gave him the call to expect the agent. "Yes – come with me."

007 gives him the barest of friendly smiles as he turns and leaves his office for the lab, where he had resisted the urge to collect the gadgets and line them up neatly prior to the blond's arrival.

"Your gun," he says perfunctorily, sliding open the seventh drawer in the 00 rack and slapping the Walther in the broad-palmed hand, not thinking at all about the way that hand had rested firmly on his bare knee to keep his thighs apart a few nights previously. "Same as last time, hope you don't mind."

The older man smiles tightly. "Not at all," he defers. "I'm finding the personal touches very useful."

He hums dismissively – that's what the gun's designed for, after all. So many agents are taken out by their own guns. "Homing radio," he continues, handing over the sleek case and avoiding the blue eyes. His own can't quite keep from lighting up at the next item lifted lightly from the drawer. "Transport," he concludes, dropping a ring of keys into the outstretched palm. "You'll find it parked in bay seven on the ground floor."

007's eyes crinkle in amusement at the keyrings he had chosen: two silver 'O's and a rhinestone-studded number seven. "This had better be more impressive than the last piece of crap your department gave me," he says lightly.

Q cracks a grin. "Oh, yes," he assures his one-time lover confidently. "I designed the improvements to this one myself. I've totally _pimped your ride, dude._"

The agent grimaces. "Never do that again," he orders quietly.

He nods quickly. He hadn't said it seriously or expected the slang to suit his usual precise manner, but hearing the words come out of his own mouth had been worse than he'd expected. "Yeah," he agrees.

007 grins at him, and for a moment it's blindingly obvious, the connection that seemed so natural after that assignment, and Q clears his throat to hide the fact that his heart is suddenly thumping so hard the extra blood-flow is turning his cheeks red.

This requires considerable attention, and so it's a moment or so before he realises that 007's leaving and he now has to call him back, admitting the lapse in focus.

"One more thing, 007,"he says, trying to keep his voice steady and authoritative rather than suddenly desperate for affection. He hands over the last gadget perfunctorily.

The agent examines it with a lovely expression of amused interest. "What is it?" he asks, running his fingers up the sleek chrome pen and lingering with intent on the clicker.

"_Don't_ click it!" Q scolds quickly, reaching out to stop the movement if necessary. 007 holds his thumb pointedly away from the button, still grinning. Q tries to glare at him, but gives up when he realises it isn't working. "Honestly, 007, when issued a device by Q-branch you _do not_ press buttons until you have been debriefed on their function."

The insouciant grin does not diminish. "Go on, then, Q," he says, pursing his lips and leaning over the desk invitingly. "_Debrief me_."

The moment crackles in the air between them, so strong that Q doesn't even attempt to hold back the lazy smile and lowering of the eyelashes that says, _would that I could, 007, right-fucking-here with the intern bumbling about in the corner_, despite the fact that he has circumstantial evidence that the agent quite often doesn't _wear_ briefs to maintain the line of his tailoring.

"It's an exploding pen, 007," he says calmly as the moment fades into its aftershocks. "You looked so disappointed that I didn't have one for you when we first met, so I've been looking out for opportunities to commission you remotely-triggered explosives."

For a moment, the most delightful surprised smile hangs on 007's face. "Well, that's very thoughtful of you, Q. I'll make sure I use it."

Q hands over the explosive charges that go with the pen, his debriefing on how to activate them somewhat absent-minded as he begins planning the next device that might bring out the blond's flattered and surprised little smile.

He does indeed use the charges, Q notes with a tiny smile as he reviews the 00 statuses one last time before switching off the lights in his office. He isn't sure whether it's because or in spite of this that the older man is sitting on his sofa in the dark when he gets home, twirling the pen between his fingers and watching it catch the street-lights through the window.

"007," he says, flicking the lights on and stowing his laptop by the door as though it's not a surprise to come home and find a high-status MI6 agent toying with a deadly weapon in his sitting-room.

Said agent looks up at him lazily and spins the pen between thumb and index finger. "Hello, Q," he says lightly.

He's not sure yet whether bringing 007 back to his own flat and giving him time to memorise the address was a good or a terrible idea. Q glances around the room just in case anything's changed. "Congratulations, I hear the assignment was a blazing success."

He didn't really intend the pun to be funny, and so when 007 gives him a tight smile but doesn't laugh he nods sharply and continues to the kitchen, mumbling something about putting the kettle on.

He's already decided not to comment on the dubious social acceptability of breaking in like this, so the state of the kitchen just sort of cements the resolution. "Did you… do my dishes?" he asks, slightly stunned.

007, standing in the doorway with his arms folded now, shrugs – actually looking _apologetic_. "I used a few of them," he says, scratching at the stubble growing across his chin. "Force of habit."

"Christ, you can come again," Q says without thinking. The blond looks pleasantly surprised again – _twice in one day_, Q thinks stupidly – and stalks closer in an ever-so-slightly predatory manner.

"Thank you," he says placidly. "I just might." Then he kisses Q, hard, and any hasty retractions of _actually, that was rhetorical and I'd rather you didn't break into my flat again_ are just as quickly forgotten. If he keeps doing that thing with his fingernails on Q's back then 007 can move in permanently if he likes.

It takes a moment to start breathing again when the blond releases him, but after that he manages to smirk confidently and say, "You liked the exploding pen, then."

007 bites down on the part of his neck he'd been kissing. "Let me show you how much," he growls, sliding gracefully to his knees and making straight for the zip on Q's trousers. He hopes the little squeak he makes in drowned out by the rush of air as the kettle begins to boil, but the grin 007 gives him in the instant before he swallows Q's already-hard cock right down to the root says otherwise, and the shout that escapes him at _that_ is definitely heard.

He'd be embarrassed at the fact that he's coming collapsed half-over the kitchen table when the kettle starts to whistle barely a minute later if he wasn't so relieved that he hadn't had to stop the agent in the middle of that thing he was doing with his tongue to turn the damn thing off. He makes tea in a comfortable silence and jerks off the blond while it steeps to even up the playing field.

"How did you know Elle wouldn't be here?" Q asks after 007 has cleaned up and dribbled milk into his Earl Grey but before the flush of orgasm has left his cheeks.

The agent gives him another tight grin. "She said, last time I was here. Lectures in Dublin 'till Sunday."

Q nods as though he understands, which he doesn't. None of that explains what 007 is _doing_ here, only that he consciously picked a day where he knew they'd be alone in the flat. He supposes that isn't what he asked.

He means to try again, but that's when the blond drains the last of his tea and places a gentle but overwhelmingly sensual kiss on his lips. Q pretends to frown. "All right," he says. "I think you've expressed your feelings over the pen now, 007."

The older man grins, genuinely this time. "Yes," he agrees cheerfully. "This is for," the next kiss is slightly harder, and the next, each punctuated by another vehement word, "that utterly – _magnificent - _car."

Then he _picks Q up_ and _carries_ him to his bedroom, and all thoughts of pushing the issue further completely leave his head.

Knowing how 007 had broken in unannounced the first time, he probably should have thought to tell him not to turn up on the Saturday.

As it is, he doesn't even consider the fact that 007 isn't aware of his personal schedule and might not know that it's Q's turn to host the quarterly family gathering and turning up in the middle of the after-dessert cup of brandy-and-tea probably isn't the best idea.

Q's flat isn't big enough for the whole extended family, so it's just a few aunts and uncles split into gender-specific factions in his living room, the men heartily discussing the football and the women – to whom Q had defected – just as enthusiastically ribbing him about his love life.

"So," Aunt Tracey says intently, leaning her chin on her carefully-manicured hands. "Is there a boyfriend?"

He doesn't recall ever mentioning his sexual preference to his family, but the first time he'd mentioned another man in a romantic sense no-one had looked surprised and they'd left it at that.

For a moment he thinks about 007, about the two mind-blowing all-nighters they've pulled together in the past week. Then he tries to shake his head, but the women have caught the faraway glint in his eye and they zone in like hawks. "There _is_!" Aunty Tina shrieks. It's testament to her character that her husband Paul doesn't even look around. "Tell us _all_!"

He knows once they've started there's no getting rid of them, so Q shrugs his shoulders, pours another measure of brandy into a fresh cup of tea and settles back into his chair. They had wine with dinner and the brandy isn't anyone's first drink of the evening, so maybe it's that that leads Q to believe that there won't be any repercussions if he builds the lie on the truth and begins to describe 007.

"Well, he's an agent with MI6," he says, "so technically we're not supposed to be seeing each other."

Aunt Tracey lets out a shrill squeak. "Ooh, an _agent_, how sexy," she says, clapping her hands together. Aunt Tracey married into their family from Sri Lanka, where apparently the unspoken British laws of privacy don't exist, and Q's always been more than a little intimidated by her. Now, in between her and the brazenly approving stare of Aunty Tina, he squirms a little.

"Yes, he is," he says, unable to stop himself and certain that a few juicy details will keep her at bay until he can change the subject. "Unbearably so. And every time he smiles at me I can barely believe that it's me he wants." _Even if it's just for the night,_ he doesn't add.

Aunty Tina upends the brandy bottle into Aunt Tracey's teacup until it almost overflows. "So what's he _like_," she asks, fiddling with the screw-top on the bottle before giving up and leaving it open.

Q pictures 007, all grey-and-white stubble and shockingly blue eyes. "He's a bit older than me," he admits. "Well, quite a bit."

"So he's experienced," Aunt Tracey nods sagely. "Good choice."

He wants to protest that it isn't like he consciously chooses older men because of their likely experience in the bedroom, but he's talking to his intoxicated aunts and it won't help. He sends a _help-me_ glance in his mother's direction, but she only smiles vaguely at him over her Baileys-laced hot chocolate and turns back to his cousin's description of the luxury spa holiday she's just come back from.

"He's blond," he continues instead. "And he has the most incredibly blue eyes."

Aunty Tina sighs. "Oh, he sounds magnificent," she says wistfully. "I bet he has a really sexy name, too, doesn't he. Or are you really kinky and use codenames in bed?"

Q quite studiously doesn't think about 007 screaming out his title in the small hours of a few mornings ago. Instead he starts to panic a little, because he _knows_ 007's name, everyone does, but he hasn't been _given_ it and after the first disaster of an attempt they sort of _have_ stuck to codenames in the bedroom and if the agent hasn't _told_ him his name is it all right for him to give it away? "Er," he covers hastily. "I'm not – he's supposed to stay undercover, I can't –"

He cuts himself off at a buzz from his phone – four sharp bursts of vibration meaning someone's triggered the motion sensors at the door. He turns to look, thinking perhaps Elle's come back from Dublin early, only he _told_ her he'd have family over on Saturday night so surely she'd stay out of the – oh.

007 stops dead in the doorway, blinking at the room full of people blinking back at him. For a moment everything stops mortifyingly still; then Aunty Tina's whisper echoes through the still room. "Oh, he _is_ gorgeous."

Q wonders why he hasn't already invented some sort of device that enables him to sink into the floor and disappear. "Sorry," he says aloud in response to the look he's getting from the agent. "I didn't think to tell you this was happening. If you actually gave me _warning_ before you _broke in_…"

007 recovers effortlessly, relaxing from the almost imperceptible fight-or-flight stance to smile disarmingly at him. "But then I'd lose the element of surprise," he says, shucking his jacket and striding purposefully towards him through the room of relatives. "You might actually be able to resist me."

Aunt Tracey actually shivers as 007 leans forward and pecks Q on the lips. "I doubt it," Q retorts.

"Tommy's been telling us all about you," Aunt Tracey tells him. "He hadn't quite got around to your name. Or is that _classified_?"

The agent smiles diplomatically. "Technically, yes," he says lightly, "but it's James. James Bond."

"I _told_ you he'd have a sexy name," says Aunty Tina. Q gives further serious thought to the floor-swallowing device, but 007 grins at his desperately apologetic look and chuckles at the statement.

"I'm flattered," he says, shaking Aunty Tina's hand. Q whispers an apology into his ear and introduces him around. When they make it back to Aunt Tracey and Aunty Tina to discover they're a chair short, 007 sits down and tugs Q into his lap like it's the most natural thing in the world, murmuring answers to the women's questions with his chin against Q's jaw so that his voice makes Q's skull vibrate. It's warm and domestic and he wants it to be _real_ so badly that he can barely concentrate. He gives a noticeable start the first time he hears _Tommy_ in the ever-so-familiar confidently clipped tones, because it seems so strange to hear his name – well, his nickname, really, he doesn't allow anyone but his family to call him _Tommy_ – spoken by 007 so easily, like he's used it a million times in a million ways and not only just learned it half an hour ago.

"I'm sorry," he repeats, when he's finally managed to shoo his mother's fussing hands away from the concave of his stomach and out the door. "It's easier just to make things up when they start asking, otherwise they don't stop. Naturally I thought of you first – I certainly didn't expect you to come and –"

007 kisses him hard just to still his mouth, the same brutal urgency as the times before as though nothing's changed, and Q is still burning with so much locked-up affection and lust from sitting calmly on the agent's knee so he kisses back just as hard until 007 pulls away, all subtle smile and soft blue eyes.

"If I minded, Q," he says, his voice a warm rumble that makes Q's entire body shake, "I wouldn't have played along."

He notices the reinstatement of his title over his name and relaxes into the warm, hard body supporting his own. "Count yourself lucky you don't have family, 007," he murmurs into the agent's shoulder. "They're terribly exhausting."

007 strokes the hair at the nape of his neck and presses a soft kiss to his temple. "You're drunk, and it's bedtime," he says softly. "Come on."

"You're taking me to bed," Q says wistfully before he can stop himself.

The blond laughs softly into his hair. "Yes, I am," he agrees, starting an odd two-step to the bedroom. "If you're good, I might even give you a goodnight kiss."

Q spares the tiniest thought for his ruined filtering system – this is why he doesn't drink – before spilling out of his mouth, "If I'm _really_ good, do I get a goodnight shag?"

"Oh, you'd have to be _really_ good," 007 says, his voice rich and amused. Q has the self-awareness to be mortified at the line, but the older man doesn't seem to mind.

He strips without ceremony once they reach the bedroom because Q's seen him in every state of nakedness possible before; his clothes he drops in the laundry basket rather than the floor before he climbs onto the bed and looks expectantly at the agent. "Good enough?" he asks.

007 shakes his head, but it's not a negation. "Pretty damn close, Q," he admits softly. Q watches him strip with no small stirring of interest, and sighs as the blond climbs onto the bed and crawls over him in a manner reminiscent of an alpha lion.

Q smiles brightly. "It's very attractive when you do that, 007," he says matter-of-factly.

007 laughs. "I have to find some way to keep up with you in that respect," he says. Q thinks that's a compliment, but he can't quite tell, so he settles for running his hands up the strong planes of the agent's shoulderblades and feels the shift of powerful muscles as he settles on his elbows and searches by the touch of lips for Q's mouth.

He's expecting the hard, purposeful kisses that he's used to from the man, so the gentle, affectionate caress of lips and tongue takes his breath away in surprise. He squeaks into the kiss when 007 shifts his weight to reach between them for Q's cock, his touch not the firm, means-to-an-end tug of their previous nights but a gentle motion in time with the exploratory movements of his tongue. Even with his brain slightly fuzzy and his inhibitions almost non-existent with drink, Q knows that this isn't what people do for casual sex. This is weighted, intimate, and suddenly Q's throat sticks with emotion and it's hard to breathe.

Eventually 007 reaches out to the bedside table for the lube and slicks his fingers without comment; Q's afraid that any word from him might break the spell, make the blond realise that what he's doing isn't exactly characteristic of their previous interactions, and then he might stop. He can't stop the tiny gasps from leaking out of his mouth every time 007's perfectly-proportioned fingers graze his prostate, but he bites his lips desperately to hold in the moans and whimpers.

The agent lets out a low grunting groan as he presses inside Q, keeping his body low and their chests rubbing gently together, the low crop of blond curly hair across 007's pectorals a delightful friction against Q's as they move slowly together, Q's arms wrapped tightly across 007's back to keep them close and warm and safe. They move in and out of each other reverently, Q afraid to meet the blue gaze boring into his face in case the clarity of such communication snaps him out of whatever he seems to be stuck in. Climax sneaks up on him slowly, and the urge to push back, to beg for _harder_ and _faster_ is almost overwhelming, but Q swallows it and surrenders to the slow swell of the feeling instead. He bites down on his mind's fevered screams of _JamesJamesJamesJames_ and gasps his orgasm into the stocky man's shoulder instead, all too aware of what seems an intensely private moment above him as the blond follows him over the edge with a quiet gasp of, _Q_. 007's climax feels like something Q has walked in on but isn't supposed to see; it's _too_ intimate, too unreserved.

007 rolls off him slowly, panting harshly into the pillow beside his head and pressing kisses into the hollow of Q's throat as if he needs them to breathe. He thinks he realises, as he feels a palm align with his own and join their fingers, what's just happened: 007 has misjudged how drunk Q really is, or failed to notice the moment his too-heartfelt affection and _care_ snapped him into almost complete sobriety, and accidentally shown him a part of himself that he wasn't supposed to let go.

He squeezes the hand in his own, clamping it down to his side when the older man makes to get up. "Are you staying?" he asks, turning carefully-unfocussed eyes on his lover as he gently tugs at their hands.

007 smiles gently and bends down to kiss Q on the forehead. "If you want me to," he says softly. "I'm just going to get a flannel."

When the agent comes back to bed after carefully wiping both of them down with warm, wet terry cloth, Q clamps him instantly into a circle of his arms and snuggles into him shamelessly. If 007 has lowered some sort of barrier, then Q fully intends to take everything he can get. He's not sure if he's surprised or not when the other man curls into him in response, embracing the cuddle comfortably. "This is nice," Q says blithely, sticking with the drunk façade.

He can feel the agent's smile shift his curly hair. "It _is_ nice," 007 murmurs. Q pretends to fall asleep almost instantly, but despite the comfort of the cuddle he stays awake, wondering whether this is just 007 indulging him or whether this is what he wants, whether he's always wanted this, whether if Q hadn't questioned him that first night they might have had this domestic comfort ever since. It's very possible that he's been colossally stupid.

He wakes up to an empty bed, a glass of water and a pill-cap containing two ibuprofen on the bedside table. He didn't actually drink enough to have more than a groggy feeling and a slight headache, so he gulps the water and leaves the pills. He wonders whether 007 expects him to remember the night before, but it seems unlikely.

It's Sunday, but he makes his way into the office anyway to deal with the aftermath of a recent jaunt by 002; he absolutely does not hold his breath as he walks into every room, hoping for a glimpse of blond hair and blue eyes. Whether he is or not, 007 appears not to have turned up and Q leaves disappointed.

Q tries not to react when 007 walks into his office on Monday morning wearing a big, friendly smile. The agent looks at him expectantly, as though Q should know _exactly _why he's there, but he doesn't so he smiles back and arranges his face into a politely patient expression. "It's lovely to see you, 007," he says finally, "but can I help you with something?"

007's grin widens into a slightly puzzled frown. "I thought it was the other way around," he replied. "M said you needed a 00 to run some kind of test on a gadget?"

He blinks briefly. "Oh. I think he may have misunderstood me – the piece of technology I mentioned to him this morning has been lab-tested by Q-branch, it requires field testing on someone's next assignment. But thank you for volunteering, 007."

The agent's grin is wry and amused. "Technically I didn't volunteer, but if it's not going to get me killed I don't see a problem."

Q smiles, and they sit in silence for a moment, until it's evident that 007 is not going to raise the subject of the night before last and the need to confess becomes too much for him to bear. "Look," he breaks in, "about that night –"

"Don't worry, Q," 007 tells him calmly. "You were an amusing drunk, but you didn't do anything you'd regret."

"I _know_," he says quickly, forcing himself to look straight and not sound apologetic. "I wasn't really that drunk."

007 stares at him. Q sets his mouth into an unapologetic line and waits for him to process that: neither man's face shows the flickers of panic and warmth and cold that wash over them each in turn. "Right," the blond breathes finally. "Good. I should go."

He stands up to make his escape, just like the first time he offered a piece of himself and Q was too shocked to accept it. He mentally slaps himself. _Stop second-guessing everything_, the part of him that's always sounded like his mother says. _You need him, all of him, so just take what he gives you and don't ask questions or he'll take it away. _

"No, 007, wait, please," he says, standing up and reaching out to him as the agent nears the door. 007 turns back, his face schooled into a blankness Q recognises all too well. "It's Tom," he says quickly. 007 looks back at him in surprise, so he elaborates before he loses his nerve. "My name. Thomas Boothroyd. Only my family ever calls me _Tommy_, and only because I can't stop them. My friends – the ones I don't know through work, anyway – call me Tom."

007 smiles faintly as Q forcibly shuts his mouth to stop the verbal incontinence. "James," he says cordially. Q smiles. "Would you get a drink with me after work, Tom?"

It's not just a drink the agent's offering, just like it wasn't just a name Q gave him first: it's a proper relationship, the one Q's wanted since before their first kiss, the one they could have – _would_ have had from the start if he'd been a little quicker on the uptake or a little less willing to let go. "I'd love to," he says, finding the courage to step forwards and peck the blond on the lips. "James."


End file.
